


I Limp Out To The Sound

by shoutoutout



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoutoutout/pseuds/shoutoutout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana and Brittany during and after Rachel's house party from 'Blame It On The Alcohol'</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Limp Out To The Sound

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song 'Foot Shooter' by Frightened Rabbit

Brittany is like, _really_ strong.

Santana knows this of course, knows the way Brittany would lift her during Cheerios practice, the way her arms would work like a vice in a hug after winning Nationals, the way she'd push Santana's hips into the mattress until Santana was hissing through her teeth -- the way, with the proper flick of her tongue, Brittany's thighs would clench around Santana's head -- but these are all distant memories now and Santana's forgotten just how strong Brittany is until this moment, her vision spinning and heavy bass pounding through her body.

"You got puke on my bra," Brittany says simply, staring into Santana's eyes, "This is gross."

Santana wants to speak but _God_ , her head is about to up and split and the bathroom hasn't stopped moving since she slumped down against the wall, forehead resting on the toilet seat.

She mumbles instead.

"It's OK," Brittany slurs, she's drunk too but clearly, from the way she can sit upright and keep the contents of her stomach, you know, _in_ her stomach, she's doing a lot better than Santana. "I don't really like this one anyway. Polka dots always confuse me."

At this point Santana is pretty confident she can form at least _a_ word without anything vomit-flavored spilling out of her mouth so she chooses an incredulous "What?"

"The polka dots, I always connect them, but they never make a picture."

"Oh." And it makes perfect sense. Too much sense, actually, because Santana's really drunk. "Brit," she whines, "It was too, too, _too_ much." She chants it like a song.

"What did you drink?" Brittany pouts, taking this moment to unclasp her bra, shrugging it off her shoulders. She throws the garment into the hallway.

"Everything," she replies, waving an ineffective hand through the air, "All of it. All of that." Santana glances sideways, now eye level with Brittany's chest. "Your ta-ta's..." she giggles, turning her face back into the toilet, looking away. Laughing makes her want to throw up again.

Brittany sighs and runs her hand in slow circles on Santana's back. "You're not so smart sometimes, San."

If the alcohol wasn't doing enough, Brittany's words just about punch her in the stomach. And yeah, she's _drunk_ , and Drunk Santana likes to cry and bitch and moan and make a scene (thanks, Sam) but maybe it's not so much Brittany's words as it is the smile with which she says them, like it's charming to her that Santana is so unbelievably stupid sometimes.

Like she could even like it.

It makes Santana throw up.

"Ew," Brittany mutters under her breath but Santana can't stop it, her body heaving under the strain.

"Lo siento," she tries weakly, tears pooling in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. She flushes them and her sickness with a heavy hand. "Lo siento," she repeats like something's been broken inside her.

"Here," Brittany says, moving behind Santana, taking long brown hair in her hands. She braids it with deft fingers and ties it back with something that was around her wrist. "Now you can puke and look like Pocahontas. Like Puke-ahontas."

Santana laughs this time and it doesn't hurt, doesn't make her insides twist, so she manages to prop her head up against the wall, eyes trained on Brittany. "I'm all up _ons_ that John Smith tail," and it's maybe _the_ dumbest thing Santana has ever said but it makes Brittany giggle so she throws in some half-hearted gang signs just because.

Sam isn't allowed to see her being dorky like this, but Brittany's Brittany and she just laughs and grabs her hands, helping Santana onto her feet.

It's with this that Santana remembers Brittany's strength, how, beneath all of it, Brittany is so much more solid, so much more _there_ than Santana has ever been. It scares her sometimes, the strength in Brittany's body.

"Thanks," she mutters, steadying herself with Brittany's shoulder. It's more a whisper than anything else and Santana will pretend she hasn't said it, holding onto the bathroom counter, feeling the world slowly spinning to a stop, "You're so strong, Brit."

Santana takes a step forward then, almost thrown off balance by the soft sigh that escapes Brittany's lips, before claiming, "I thinks I gots this," and the good thing is she really _does_ gots this, managing to stand and walk towards the open bathroom door. "C'mon, Titty Titty Bang Bang, time to make our grand re-entrance, head-bitches-in-charge style."

"Cool," Brittany breathes, "I love bitch style." She snaps her fingers for emphasis and God, if Santana isn't proud right then.

\--

The party doesn't last much longer but Santana takes three more shots _because_.

Rachel had snorted, doubling over on herself, when she saw Brittany coming out of the bathroom topless. "Brittany, your boobs..." she'd choked, leaning into Blaine and laughing into his collar. "Put on... a shirt...!" she'd said through gasps. Blaine locked shocked eyes with Santana and smirked so wide it almost cut his face in half. "Your _boobs!_ " Rachel exclaimed one last time, reaching forward and miming her hands around Brittany's chest before Blaine grabbed her by the snot colored dress and pulled her back into him.

"We get it," Santana cut, "Brittany has tits and, sorry to break it to you, Bilbo Faghaggins, but they're _amazing_ " and regardless of the way she'd snapped her fingers with each syllable or swung her hip out in emphasis, Rachel really is a fun drunk but it's then that Artie rolls up, offering Brittany his sweater, and it's then that Santana takes off to find something else to drink, muttering under her breath something even she doesn't remember.

By her third shot in 20 minutes she's ready to head back to the bathroom, collapse for good against the toilet seat, but Brittany's there, sweeping her off of Sam's lap, telling her it's time to go.

"No, no, no," she whines, arms reaching back for Sam, "I'm staying with duck lips tonight."

"C'mon," Brittany says, and Artie is pulling at her too, "Artie's mom is here," and irrational fits of rage are nothing new to Santana but something really does break inside of her this time and she clenches around herself when she turns to face the couple.

"If you two want to get your handicap ramp fuck on tonight then that's fine but me's and _my_ man have plans, right babe?" and she's crossed a line with Brittany when she watches her bestfriend step back and sink into herself because Santana rarely talks to her like that and when she has in the past she'd kiss it better but now there's a drunk wheelchair nerd between them like he's protecting the blonde from Santana's words.

"Santana," Brittany tries again and, _OK_ , Santana is getting up and letting them lead her off, and the room really is spinning so she whimpers her apologies a thousand times into Brittany's shoulder but she's not sure she's hearing it.

She's never sure Brittany's really hearing it.

\--

"This is so seriously disturbed, Brit," and it is, Santana's not the crazy one here, it's just maybe she shouldn't have said that when they're all still in the car with Artie's mom, her gaze hardened and fixed on the road.

"My mom's cool about this stuff, don't worry," Artie chimes in, smiling dumbly at Brittany and Santana in the backseat. Smiling at _Brittany_ , if Santana's honest, looking past the brunette like it's that easy to see straight through her.

Santana forces her gaze down when Brittany leans forward, placing a kiss on Artie's cheek. "She really is, Artie. Your mom's like, _the_ coolest. She's like Lindsay Lohan's mom only not all psychotic, ya know? Total MILF."

Mrs. Abrams chuckles awkardly from her place up front but there's a kindness in it that tells Santana that she's been around Brittany long enough to humor her comments and even appreciate her honest simplicity.

Santana starts to tear up so she puts her forehead against the window and it's so cool that she realizes how hot hot hot her body has been running and sinks into the feeling of cold glass against her skin.

"Is she alright?" Mrs. Abrams asks, glancing nervously in the rearview mirror, obviously referring to the way Santana is now sobbing against the backseat window.

"Yeah, Mrs. MILF," Brittany answers for her, "Santana always cries a lot when she drinks. She gets sad."

"Oh," Artie's mom fidgets, eyes darting from the road back to Santana a couple of times. "That's too bad."

Something looms in Santana's chest ( _rage_ she recognizes) and she wants to chew wheelchair's mom out, wants to scream and kick and claw, but Brittany's hand finds her thigh and squeezes until Santana makes eye contact. Her vision's bleary but she can feel Brittany's smile, warm and itchy in her stomach, and she can't do anything besides collapse into her side, crying hopelessly into her shoulder.

She ignores everyone else in the car until she's at Brittany's house, stumbling up the walkway, ignoring Brittany kissing Artie goodnight, hugging Artie's mom, and almost skipping to where Santana's waiting for her, slumped on the front stairs.

The lights of the van backing out of the Pierce's driveway barely penetrate her vision, too focused on the way Artie's too-big-for-her sweater clings to Brittany's chest.

\--

"You should really be nicer to Artie," Brittany pouts in the darkness of her bedroom, upset for reasons Santana honestly can't force herself to care about.

"I don't like him. That's all," Santana says, tugging the blanket closer to her chest, laying on her side. They're facing each other in Brittany's bed, covers pulled up to their chins, pretending they can see eachother without any light even though they really can't.

"Well," Brittany squirms, stretching her legs until they're comfortable against Santana's, "You don't have to whisper things like _stairs_ to him when I'm not looking."

Santana can't help but laugh, her voice rough and dark like poison, until Brittany actually punches her in the stomach this time, a little more forcibly than is good for her. She furrows her brow and breathes in through her nose, composing herself to keep from throwing up for the millionth time tonight.

It's hard; Brittany's strong.

"Sorry," Brittany whispers, inching closer to Santana. "I forgot your stomach is all wrong tonight."

"Puta," Santana whimpers, but places her hands on Brittany's hip, taking the sting out of her words.

She hears Brittany swallow before moving until their noses are touching, claiming Santana's pillow for her own. "Why are you so sad?"

"I'm not," Santana steels herself. She tries to think about Sam, about his big hands on her chest, on her hips. About his lips on her neck.

It doesn't help.

"San, you're crying."

If she wasn't so tired she'd say, _Because I miss you, because I miss this_ but instead she makes useless, choked noises into Brittany's face until Brittany feels so sorry for her that she kisses her quiet, pulling away as soon as Santana's composed enough to kiss her back.

It leaves her wrecked.

If she wasn't so tired she'd say, _I think my heart just broke_ but instead she bristles and clenches her jaw and tells Brittany she's exhausted and needs her beauty sleep because she's pretty sure she's got the hangover of all hangovers to deal with tomorrow.

Brittany just nods, pressing closer anyways, her breath warm against Santana's collarbone.

"I still don't like that you whisper _rollerblades_ to Artie, but it's OK because I love you."

Santana's pretty sure she falls asleep with that, nodding into Brittany's steady pulse against her fingertips.

\--

Tomorrow she'll throw up more times than she can even count but Santana maybe feels alright about things.

It's sort of cathartic in a disgusting, nauseating kind of way.


End file.
